Point of No Return
by JWAB
Summary: After another showdown, wounded and exhausted, Ichabod and Abbie contemplate the cabin's only bed. "Look, you're hurt and I'm tired and it's cold, simple as that." If only that were true.


**Point of No Return**

_This scene is one point in a triangle of smut mutually dared by CreepingMuse, latbfan, and me a few days ago. CreepingMuse wrote a delicious, wish-fulfilling one-shot, **Au Naturel**. Stay tuned for the Olicity smut from latbfan._

_Allusions to CreepingMuse's **She and He** are purposeful, as much because her story is canon to me as that her stunningly fantastic work deserves acts of literary allusion. And if you like awesomeness, go read latbfan's** How Was Your Day?** too (I started watching Arrow just so I could keep up)._

* * *

"I am capable of looking after myself."

"Come on, Crane. I can see it hurts like hell." She kneels on the floor beside his chair, pushing aside his arm, then coat, to examine the wound. "Your shirt," she says, fingering a ragged tear lined with blood.

"The day seems to have arrived," Ichabod groans, pulling the hem of his shirt out from his waistband, "to retire this fine garment." He lifts the hem so that they both can inspect the bloody gash across his lower ribs.

Abbie whistles through her teeth. "Damn."

"A scrape, nothing more," Ichabod protests. He moves to wipe some of the blood away with his sleeve, but only manages to cover it with a layer of muddy dirt.

"Up," she insists, lifting him by his armpits.

"Miss Mills, I am perfectly capable -"

"Got to clean you up and there's no use arguing. It's gonna happen with or without your consent."

They move the operation to the bathroom, where Ichabod perches, mortified, on the closed toilet. She wets a towel and presses it against the wound. "Hold that," Abbie directs, then helps him off with his threadbare shirt, careful to guide it so he doesn't have to stretch or twist.

Next, she rifles through the medicine cabinet. Not much here, but it will do. She drenches a cotton ball with witch hazel and kneels in front of him, dabbing the dirt and blood around the wound until she can finally see it. It's definitely a gash – not as deep as she expected from all the blood, but wide. It's going to be uncomfortable for a week at least. She goes through a dozen cotton balls, wiping gently until the wound is clean, then smears a layer of Neosporin over it before it's ready for the bandage. He helps her hold the gauze in place while she tapes the thing on. "Keep this clean and dressed and you should be better in no time."

His gaze darts back and forth between Abbie and the site of her ministrations. "You are a gifted nurse, Miss Mills."

"First aid class came in handy, I guess." She gives the rectangle of tape one last check. "Are you hurt anywhere else?"

He shakes his head.

"Up you go then," she insists, and he follows her out into the bedroom. "You want another shirt to sleep in? I'm sure there's something here…"

"There are several small shirts in the wardrobe – Miss Jenny's, I gather. Nothing to fit the likes of me, I'm afraid." He yawns suddenly, before he can stifle it. How unseemly to appear tired in front of a guest, but he hasn't slept in at least 24 hours. "My apologies."

"It's been a brutal couple of days. Of course you're tired. So am I. And it's late." His yawn is contagious, and soon the weight of their exhaustion is undeniable. "Mind if I sleep here tonight?"

"I'd be honored, Miss Mills."

She smiles, leaning over to pry off her boots. She leaves them by the door and goes around to the far side of the narrow double bed, the only bed in the cabin. He bows and turns to go.

"Where do you think you're going?" Abbie asks, raising an eyebrow.

"The floor, with a blanket, will be sufficient for me," he tells her, averting his eyes.

Abbie shakes her head, pulling the covers back. "You're wounded, Crane. I'm not letting you sleep on the floor. And I'm too tired to wrestle with that spine-cracking couch. We'll both be fine right here. Plus it's way too cold to spare one of these blankets, and you without a shirt."

"But I would hate for anyone to think less of you, Miss Mills." It is only the first of many arguments on the tip of his tongue.

"Nobody needs to know we're sharing a bed – for _sleeping_. Not that anybody I know would care. Look, you're hurt and I'm tired and it's cold, simple as that." She pronounces it with such finality, a gavel would not be out of place.

However, for Ichabod, sharing a bed with Miss Mills is not simple. Even aside from the intrusive frisson he now feels at her every touch, the _simple_ fact is that he is married. How would it appear to Katrina, were she to see them? The prospect of faithlessness pierces like a nail, but the still-bright sting of her betrayal is the response. Her lies of omission, her deceit – they galvanize him.

Moloch holds her captive, yes, and Abraham's menace remains, but she is not blameless. It was her spell that propelled him two hundred years into the future.

If he must share a bed with Miss Mills, she has no grounds to protest.

"'Miss Mills'," she says with a tsk, climbing into bed. "Come on, now. You've got a phone, you've conquered the internet, you're a champion at the fist bump. You can call me Abbie."

"As you wish," he agrees, still refusing to say her name. It would be too personal; it would collapse their distance too precipitously. With everything they must still face together, and the way she…. No, he'll just have to avoid naming her altogether. He forces a conciliatory grin and slides carefully onto the close edge of the narrow double bed, wincing at a sharp pain under the bandage.

"It's not like anything's gonna happen," Abbie argues softly, pulling the sheet and blankets up over her chest.

"Quite right," Ichabod agrees, settling himself on the edge, careful not to let any part of his long frame touch any part of hers.

They lie side by side, pretending not to be wide awake, for what seems like hours. Ichabod's breath is too fast and too loud in his ears. He has an itch on his nose, his shoulder; he has to sneeze. He stifles a cough and stares up at the ceiling. How many hours until dawn?

Abbie curls onto her left, facing the wall. The mattress is hard and lumpy. It might as well be the cold hard ground outside; it might as well be the slate in front of the fireplace. If it were, at least she could stretch out and stop feeling so… weird. It's weird. And if she's honest with herself, there is nothing simple about lying beside Ichabod.

Crane. His name is Crane.

The thing is that he's different. He's stilted and proper and so damn confused. He's a lot of work, truth be told. And he looks like a damn pirate.

That's not really the thing, though, is it? The thing – the real thing – is that something is happening, some collusion between her brain and her guts that makes her want to be around him even when she doesn't have to be. And since it's past midnight and what's the point of lying to herself: yeah, she feels a spark. Not that it matters, because he's married, but for her there is definitely something going on. A little. Nothing she can't manage. But there are a few things she likes a little too much. The way he shrugs on his coat. The way his eyes burn with ferocious determination. The way he holds a gun (and when she corrected him, the way his hips felt under her hands). Nope, no parentheses. What's the point of parentheses in the middle of the night when you're talking to yourself? Okay then. The way his hips felt under her hands. The way his hands feel in her hands. His heart is tangled in knots, the poor man – what he must be going through, it's unimaginable – but he still has room for her there.

And he is lying right here, hips and hands and heart, right next to her. And there is no way he's asleep.

"Crane, you sleeping?" Abbie asks the wall.

"No," he says, his voice nearly all whisper.

"What's wrong? You're not still freaking out about sharing this bed, are you?"

"No, I'm not."

"How's your scrape?"

Ichabod presses gently against the bandage. It aches. "Perfect. I'm cured."

Abbie laughs, sharp and louder than she expected. She hears him breathe a sigh and feels his body relax a little in the space behind her. "So what are you thinking about?"

"Recent revelations."

"Jeremy?"

Ichabod sighs deeply, despite himself. Abbie can feel the low rumble of it through the mattress. "Yes," he admits softly.

He doesn't elaborate. Maybe he can't. His breathing becomes shallower. After a few minutes, she feels him lift his right hand to his face. As he lets it fall again, she reaches behind her and takes it in hers. No real thought behind it. It's a gesture of support, directly from her heart to his. Any errant sparks are all in her head.

She threads her fingers between his and they lie there like that, awkwardly, her arm twisted behind her, his arm laying across his body to hang in the space between them. It pinches the gash on his side, making him wince. He squeezes her hand; she squeezes back.

After a few minutes, he curls onto his left side, keeping his hand in hers. It's a little better like this. She feels the slack in their arms and draws their hands closer to her, onto her hip. He scoots a few inches closer and together they let their clasped hands fall in front of her.

"Is this -?" he begins.

"Shh," she assures him with another squeeze.

This is better, isn't it? It's comfort, Abbie tells herself, it's like a hug but horizontal and in the dark. And this bed really isn't big enough for both of them to lie next to each other without touching. It's not a big deal. His hips squared behind hers, his knees pressing gently against the backs of her legs – it's because he's really too tall for the bed. The warmth of his arm and his chest, his breath against her neck, none of it means anything. Friends used to sleep in beds together all the time, right?

Probably not like this.

He doesn't acclimate immediately, but Ichabod's anxiety eventually eases. It restores him to feel her here, nestled against him. She is smaller than he realized – she always appears somehow larger with a gun in her hands. But in this bed, her breath light and even, the deep curve of her waist under his arm, she seems unbearably small and warm. Without deciding it, he pulls her just an inch closer. Human comfort, nothing more, no matter that the scent of her skin stirs him. But what harm can come from the fire her scent kindles in him? He would never make an unwanted advance.

Maybe Abbie didn't think this hand-holding idea through. It feels great – she's never been with a guy this tall, and it turns out this here is the arrangement spooning was invented for – but they are straight up cuddling now. His right hand is inches from her breasts and the weight of his arm on her waist makes her hyper aware of her curvy figure, no way around it. And his hips? Yeah, she is statue-still; if she were to move at all, she would brush up against The Part and that might give him the wrong idea. Which it is. The wrong idea.

But she really wants to swirl her hips backward in a little spiral. Not _her_ exactly – her body wants to. Her hips have a mind of their own, and they are all about pressing backward into his.

"May your dreams be sweet," he whispers into her hair.

She tries to answer "yours too," but the words rush out in a gruff breath, betraying the need she has been careful to hide. He exhales in response. It sounds hungry.

That's when it begins, in unspoken agreement. She swirls a tiny spiral and he barely thrusts into it but things change nonetheless. His throaty sigh seals it for her, so that when he withdraws his hand from hers, finally letting it float over her breasts, she doesn't pull away. Instead she arches her back, just barely, offering them into his open hand. His fingers play over the soft cotton fabric that does nothing to conceal the hard nipples underneath.

The unmistakable timbre of her desire, her chest rising and falling under his touch – all of it is utterly tantalizing. His long fingers feather across the exposed skin at her collarbone; he feels her shudder. He smiles to himself, teasing her sensitive skin with his fingertips, tracing small circles where her pulse beats, then languid strokes along the muscles of her neck. He respects the boundaries he encounters: the collar of her shirt, the angle of her jaw, focusing only on skin she has chosen to expose, and avoiding her face. He senses that to brush her lips with his fingers would lead to a kiss, a point of no return.

Her hips were right, turns out. The swirl was the way to go. Her spine is serpentine now, slinking in swirl after swirl, brushing against him. He is no longer still, but responds in rhythm, gently pressing back. She lifts her head so he can curl his left arm under her head; she slides her left arm along the triangle his makes. He envelops her. They fit pretty perfectly. And he wants this – whatever this is. She can hear it in his breath, feel it in the urgent press of those hips against her.

She lets her right arm cross over his, skimming across her hip to his. She follows their rhythm, doesn't direct it, but when his hips curl toward her, she reinforces it, pressing him harder against her. He exhales then, heavy, as if a weight has been lifted. His fingers suddenly tremble at her neck. It would be impossible to miss. But her hand is so warm, he feels it even through his trousers, and if only they could remove some of this damned fabric…

It occurs to her that lying this way, not facing him, she could be standing in for Katrina without realizing it. The thought bolts through her. No way. That is not what this is about. She won't allow it.

Her body tenses, pulling closer to the wall. "I'm not her."

Ichabod leans his forehead against the back of her head. "Abbie," he whispers, reassuring her, chiding her for even considering it.

It unlocks something in her, hearing him say her name. She knows what it means. She resolves never to insist he call her Abbie in everyday life again. Nope, her name can be reserved for the most intimate moments, like this.

But that feather thing he's been doing is too good to let him stop. Without thinking it through – now is not the time - she sits up just enough to remove her t-shirt, then lies her head back down into the cradle made by Ichabod's arm. Ichabod, not Crane, not without her shirt. She snuggles backward into his bare chest, careful to avoid too much pressure against the bandage. They are both so warm it almost makes her laugh.

His right hand wanders over her, appreciating her shoulder, the swell of her chest. Her hand finds his hip again and he thanks her with a feathery stroke up and down the length of her arm. The limited scope of this encounter – one arm each, so little access – intensifies every move, every sensation. They regain their rhythm now, without urgency. There is pleasure in the assurance of his touch, of her breath.

Eventually his hand finds the rise of her round hip. Her figure, so powerful against an enemy, is stunningly luscious laid out before him like this. She swirls against him in approval; yes, her body says, that is where I want your hand. Or perhaps not there exactly, it says, pushing against the telltale hardness he is no longer taking pains to conceal. He traces along the deep wrinkle of thick fabric where her hip meets her thigh and is rewarded with a hitch in her breath. Have her legs opened a bare inch?

Her trousers – jeans, she calls them – are as thick as armor. Surely she can feel nothing through it, at this intersection of reinforced seams. Surely, and yet she purrs at faint pressure. And so he echoes the swirls of her hips with tiny swirls of his finger, to her evident delight.

It's much more difficult for her to get at him, but she is determined. She reaches behind her, to the front of his pants. Buttons, folds – this would be much easier if he would just wear those jeans she bought him. She fumbles for a moment at the fastenings, but is distracted by the pressure from behind them. As best she can, she encircles him with her small hand. His breath stops; he freezes.

"You okay?" she asks, waiting.

He doesn't respond immediately, and she's sure she's wrecked everything, but then he moves against her, thrusting ever so slightly into her hand. Okay then. They're going to do this together, this thing she wouldn't have guessed was a possibility, and they could certainly debate whether it was a good idea, but here they are, hands on each other. Their movements grow more urgent. His breath, on her neck again, is maddeningly soft. He knows what he's doing, too – jeans or no, he's got the lay of the land. She opens her legs a little wider, letting her right leg hang over his, which makes room for two more fingers.

He should have known her small hand would be a strong as the rest of her. Strong and intuitive. Without the benefit of sight, through frustrating layers of fabric, she knows how to hold him. Her hand slides along his length, squeezing in broad strokes, never releasing him. It may well drive him to climax.

The thought seizes his attention. The brink of climax? What has he done? Is he prepared for the consequences?

He pulls away, sitting up.

She turns around quickly, a reflex, and sits up to face him. "What is it?" she asks, trying for eye contact.

Was he honestly on the verge of sacrificing their sacred trust for momentary carnal pleasure? He lifts his hand to his mouth in horror, but her faint scent lingers on his fingers. He shuts his eyes and drops his hand to his lap, where, perhaps even worse, his desire is still more than evident.

"Oh God," he mutters, flinging himself from the bed. In one long stride he's inside the bathroom, the door shut between them.

Abbie can guess what he's feeling, because she's feeling something similar. She had kept herself from kissing him – she knew that would be it, the point of no return, but come on. They passed that point hours ago. Did she really think they could have some sort of adolescent grope session? She wasn't thinking, that was the problem, and he wasn't either. And now everything is weird again.

Clearly Crane thinks it's his fault. He's all bound up with chivalry and honor and he would take full responsibility for this if she let him, she knows it.

She's not going to let him. She finds a notepad and a dull pencil in the bedside table.

_This is not only your fault, Crane. It's mine, too. _

_I'm sorry._

He's still inside the bathroom, fists pressed to his eyes, when he hears first the engine roar to life, then her tires pull away.

* * *

_A/N: I'm leaving this open because it really doesn't end like this. They work together, fighting the good but very difficult fight. They struggle to get back what they lost. There are hiccups and errant touches and moments they could be honest but aren't. And eventually, something else will happen. When it does, I promise to post it._


End file.
